The worst, at first, had looked so harmless. A quiet slender man in his early thirties, endowed with an utterly forgettable face. After twenty-four hours I couldn’t recall his features or remember his voice, and yet I couldn’t think about him without shaking with sick impotent fury.
His name was David Oakley. His business, enquiry agent. His address, Birmingham.
He stood without fidgeting at the end of the Stewards’ table holding a spiral bound notebook which he consulted continually, and from beginning to end not a shade of emotion affected his face or his behaviour or even his eyes.
‘Acting upon instructions, I paid a visit to the flat of Kelly Hughes, jockey, of Corrie House training stables, Corrie, Berkshire, two days after the Lemonfizz Crystal Cup.’
I sat up with a jerk and opened my mouth to deny it, but before I could say a word he went smoothly on.
‘Mr Hughes was not there, but the door was open, so I went in to wait for him. While I was there I made certain observations.’ He paused.
Cranfield said to me, ‘What is all this about?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.’
Gowery steamrollered on. ‘You found certain objects.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Gowery sorted out three large envelopes, and passed one each to Tring and Plimborne. Ferth was before them. He had removed the contents from a similar envelope as soon as Oakley had appeared, and was now, I saw, watching me with what I took to be contempt.
The envelopes each held a photograph.
Oakely said, ‘The photograph is of objects I found on a chest of drawers in Hughes’s bedroom.’
Andy Tring looked, looked again, and raised a horrified face, meeting my eyes accidentally and for the first and only time. He glanced away hurriedly, embarrassed and disgusted.
‘I want to see that photograph,’ I said hoarsely.
‘Certainly.’ Lord Gowery turned his copy round and pushed it across the table. I got up, walked the three dividing steps, and looked down at it.
For several seconds I couldn’t take it in, and when I did, I was breathless with disbelief. The photograph had been taken from above the dressing chest, and was sparkling clear. There was the edge of the silver frame and half of Rosalind’s face, and from under the frame, as if it had been used as a paperweight, protruded a sheet of paper dated the day after the Lemonfizz Cup. There were three words written on it, and two initials.
‘As agreed. Thanks. D.C.’
Slanted across the bottom of the paper, and spread out like a pack of cards, were a large number of ten pound notes.
I looked up, and met Lord Gowery’s eyes, and almost flinched away from the utter certainty I read there.
‘It’s a fake,’ I said. My voice sounded odd. ‘It’s a complete fake.’
‘What is it?’ Cranfield said from behind me, and in his voice too everyone could hear the awareness of disaster.
I picked up the photograph and took it across to him, and I couldn’t feel my feet on the carpet. When he had grasped what it meant he stood up slowly and in a low biting voice said formally, ‘My Lords, if you believe this, you will believe anything.’
It had not the slightest effect.
Gowery said merely, ‘That is your handwriting, I believe.’
Cranfield shook his head. ‘I didn’t write it.’
‘Please be so good as to write those exact words on this sheet of paper.’ Gowery pushed a plain piece of paper across the table, and after a second Cranfield went across and wrote on it. Everyone knew that the two samples would look the same, and they did. Gowery passed the sheet of paper signficantly to the other Stewards, and they all compared and nodded.
‘It’s a fake,’ I said again. ‘I never had a letter like that.’
Gowery ignored me. To Oakley he said, ‘Please tell us where you found the money.’
Oakley unnecessarily consulted his notebook. ‘The money was folded inside this note, fastened with a rubber band, and both were tucked behind the photo of Hughes’s girl friend, which you see in the picture.’
‘It’s not true,’ I said. I might as well not have bothered. No one listened.
‘You counted the money, I believe?’
‘Yes my Lord. There was five hundred pounds.’
‘There was no money,’ I protested. Useless. ‘And anyway,’ I added desperately, ‘Why would I take five hundred for losing the race when I would get about as much as that for winning?’
I thought for a moment that I might have scored a hit. Might have made them pause. A pipe dream. There was an answer to that, too.
‘We understand from Mr Kessel, Squelch’s owner,’ Gowery said flatly, ‘That he pays you ten per cent of the winning stake money through official channels by cheque. This means that all presents received by you from Mr Kessel are taxed; and we understand that as you pay a high rate of tax your ten per cent from Mr Kessel would have in effect amounted to half, or less than half, of five hundred pounds.’
They seemed to have enquired into my affairs down to the last penny. Dug around in all directions. Certainly I had never tried to hide anything, but this behind-my-back tin-opening made me feel naked. Also, revolted. Also, finally, hopeless. And it wasn’t until then that I realised I had been subconsciously clinging to a fairy tale faith that it would all finally come all right, that because I was telling the truth I was bound to be believed in the end.
I stared across at Lord Gowery, and he looked briefly back. His face was expressionless, his manner entirely calm. He had reached his conclusions and nothing could overthrow them.
Lord Ferth, beside him, was less bolted down, but a great deal of his earlier heat seemed to have evaporated. The power he had generated no longer troubled Gowery at all, and all I could interpret from his expression was some kind of resigned acceptance.
There was little left to be said. Lord Gowery briefly summed up the evidence against us. The list of former races. The non use of the whip. The testimony of Charlie West. The bets struck on Cherry Pie. The riding orders given in private. The photographic proof of a pay off from Cranfield to Hughes.
‘There can be no doubt that this was a most flagrant fraud on the racing public... No alternative but to suspend your licences... And you, Dexter Cranfield, and you, Kelly Hughes, will be warned off Newmarket Heath until further notice.’
Cranfield, pale and shaking, said, ‘I protest that this has not been a fair hearing. Neither Hughes nor I are guilty. The sentence is outrageous.’
No response from Lord Gowery. Lord Ferth, however, spoke for the second time in the proceedings.
‘Hughes?’
‘I rode Squelch to win,’ I said. ‘The witnesses were lying.’
Gowery shook his head impatiently. ‘The Enquiry is closed. You may go.’
Cranfield and I both hesitated, still unable to accept that that was all. But the official near the door opened it, and all the ranks opposite began to talk quietly to each other and ignore us, and in the end we walked out. Stiff legged. Feeling as if my head were a floating football and my body a chunk of ice. Unreal.
There were several people in the waiting-room outside, but I didn’t see them clearly. Cranfield, tight lipped, strode away from me, straight across the room and out of the far door, shaking off a hand or two laid on his sleeve. Dazed, I started to follow him, but was less purposeful, and was effectively stopped by a large man who planted himself in my way.
I looked at him vaguely, Mr Kessel. The owner of Squelch.
‘Well?’ he said challengingly.
‘They didn’t believe us. We’ve both been warned off.’
He hissed a sharp breath out between his teeth. ‘After what I’ve been hearing, I’m not surprised. And I’ll tell you this, Hughes, even if you get your licence back, you won’t be riding for me again.’